Making It Up
by Skalidra
Summary: Dick is out as Nightwing, visiting Gotham for a night, when he runs across two figures in an alley, moving in a very distinct way. He interferes, since it looks violent, but the 'victim' is very much not a victim, and very much not appreciative of him sticking his nose in where it isn't wanted.


Welcome! So, this is an older prompt I got, that I finally got around to filling. Anonymous, requesting Jason being a prostitute and Dick trying to save him. This has probably got one or two more chapters to it, but I haven't written them as of yet. Enjoy!

 **Warnings** : mentioned/implied (not-actual) rape, prostitution, mentions of dub-con.

* * *

It's the movement that catches his attention first. Just a flash in a dark alley as he swings over, just a _second_ of bodies pressed too close together, and the _shove_ of one against the other. He stops, backtracks after he's rolled to a stop on the next rooftop and comes back to the ledge, so he can look down into the shadows at that movement. Two figures, one shoved up against the wall of the alley, the other pinning it in place, skin showing up in the darkness with one hand shoved against the back of a head, and the other pinning two bare arms.

There's a rough sound of pain, accompanying the rhythmic, harsh shove of the back figure's movements. That's more than enough for him to decide what's happening, and he gets just enough momentum that he can leap down, bouncing from one wall to the other in the span of seconds. Closer, and he realizes both figures are male, realizes the one against the wall is gritting his teeth, making little grunts and whimpers with each shove that sound pained.

It's an awkward thing to interrupt — more damage if tearing out; slides and technical information he never needed to know, _thank you_ , Bruce — but he pulls out his escrima and moves closer as quickly and quietly as he can manage. Then he strikes, shoving his shoulder into the rapist's back and simultaneously hooking one of his escrima around the front of the man's throat, yanking his chin back so the man chokes. He shoves the other one against the back of the man's neck, pinning it between them, and makes sure he's pressed hard against the man's back so he can't pull out, can't _hurt_ the other man against the wall.

"Alright, buddy," he says, keeping his voice forcibly cheerful. "Let him go, nice and easy, and we can do this the simple way."

The man chokes, but both hands let go of the victim and he pulls the man back slowly, carefully, keeping his gaze away from where the two of them are parting. To give the man _some_ level of privacy, even after this violation. For a moment he considers just tying the rapist up, but, well, he really _hates_ crimes like these. So he strikes instead, knocking the man out with a hard blow to the temple and then catching the dead weight to lower him to the ground, where he wrests the man's arms behind his back and snags a ziptie to bind them.

The victim is moving, and he pauses, looks up. "Hey, it's gonna be alright. He's down, he's—"

"What the _fuck?!_ " the man snarls down at him, and he blinks. Looks again.

The man glaring down at him is tall, lean, in a too-small black tank-top and in the midst of pulling up _very_ tight jeans that are scuffed and worn. Pale skin, scuffed combat boots, black hair long enough to hang around his ears in little curls, blue-green eyes emphasized and swept with thick black eyeliner. He's… He looks… _Oh_ , that might be a problem.

"Uh…" He hesitates, and the man pulls up jeans over a — shit — _hard_ cock and carefully but quickly closes them.

"What is your _problem_ , Nightwing?" the man spits. "Ruined my _fucking_ client; there's one job that's never coming back. Thanks, you _fuck_."

He stands, staring as the man rakes a hand back in hair, leaving it in a tangle that looks a little too fuck-me to not be practiced. But the man's still glaring at him, teeth bared. "I, uh… He was your…?"

"Yeah, _was_. Getting attacked by a fucking Bat is a pretty big deterrent to buying any of my services. This guy'll never come back to lower Gotham again, let alone to me." The man braces his hands on his hips for a second, then spins around and throws both hands into the air. "God, _fuck_ you!" is shouted towards the wall of the alley. "One of my best clients and _poof_ , there he goes! You know how fucking _hard_ it is for me to pick up regular people?!"

"But, he was hurting you," he protests.

The man turns back to him, then stalks forward and _shoves_ him back a step. "Do I _look_ hurt?!"

He doesn't quite stagger, but the push is surprisingly strong and it does force him back a step. The man is actually just a little taller than him, and he has to look up a bit to meet those outlined eyes. "I heard you. I—"

"It's an _act_ ," the man hisses, getting right in his face. "Some of them pay me _good_ fucking money to act like I'm being forced, to get a little rough in ways they can't with wives, or girlfriends, or whoever else they're fucking. It's a couple fucking bruises, and these are the ones that come back, the ones that find _one_ person they like to keep their secret and just keep setting up times to do it again. The one you _fucking_ ruined. That right there?!" The man gives one sharp gesture to the unconscious man still lying on the alley floor. "That's about two-hundred a month that I'm not getting anymore."

"I didn't—"

He's cut off by another shove.

"Thanks to _you_ , I'll be working all fucking night to make up for this. Mind your own goddamn business next time, _hero_."

The man turns away from him, stalking down the alley. He stares, mouth working helplessly, and it's not even until the man's vanished into the darkness that he realizes he never got any kind of a name, or any way to identify the guy. Accent says raised in lower Gotham, and he— _Shit,_ he knows how things tend to work in lower Gotham. The people down here live by the skin of their teeth most times, and they definitely don't have enough extra to just shrug off the loss of a couple hundred. That's not street rate either. That's negotiated, special prices for off-the-cuff, planned fantasies.

At the least, he ruined the guy's night. At worst… he might have cost him his apartment, food, or earned him a beating by a pimp, if he's working under one.

He shakes his head, resisting the urge to tug at his own hair. What a mess. He's got one pissed off prostitute, and one unconscious guy who he's going to have to try to tell that it's _really okay_ he was paying for sex, but maybe next time he should plan for his rape fantasy to happen somewhere private so this doesn't happen again. Not a conversation he's relishing.

Well, at least his night probably won't get much worse from here on out. Maybe he can see if he's got enough information to try and find the guy and make it up to him later.

* * *

The crumpled pile of bills beneath his floorboard feels pathetically small every time he looks at it. More so when he has to reach in and pull out some, because he can only go so long without food in his apartment.

It's not enough; he's known that for weeks. He's done his _very_ best, even taken clients that felt more dangerous than what he usually goes for — cost him a couple bruises, but he's had much worse — but it's just not enough. Not for rent, not after he buys food and the couple essentials that he needs to do his job. Which means that he's going to have to pay the 'alternative' way for whatever he can't find in the next couple of days, and the thought turns his _fucking_ stomach but he doesn't have a choice about it.

He hates the idea of letting his landlord — and sometimes the landlord's buddies, if he's really unlucky — fuck him, but that's his only alternative. He's not even positive why he hates this particular act any more than the rest, or why it doesn't feel just like any other job. Maybe because even the most verbally abusive of his clients never get personal with any of it like his landlord does. They'll degrade him for being a whore, for 'begging' for attention, and any number of other things, but none of them know the fact that he can't make enough even with that, and none of them actually knew who his parents were and can turn that on him. None of them can actually _hurt_ him, no matter what they say. His landlord can.

He doesn't care what people call him, and he doesn't care what people think of him most of the time, but having someone throw his failures and his childhood — " _Son of an addict and a useless thug, what the fuck else could you ever have been good for?"_ — in his face is _infuriating_. One of these days, he's convinced he's going to snap and break his landlord's face, or at least his possessive fucking fingers.

He swears the bastard bruises him on purpose, and he can't exactly say _no_ to it. It costs him clients when he can't cover it up well enough, costs him supplies even if he can, and it's all those common spots that people grab him so he spends his time trying to cover up winces, trying to convince his body that pain is pleasure.

His phone chimes, and he reaches down and pulls it out of his pocket without thought, swiping it open even as he looks down. Notification, new email to the account he affectionately calls 'bait' in his head. Accounts on various dating websites with just enough keywords that someone with any clue can tell what he does, but enough for plausible deniability just in case some miraculously not-corrupt cop picks him up some night and tries to make an actual case against him. Not that that's ever going to happen in _lower Gotham_ , but better safe than in jail.

The sight of the email's contents loosens his shoulders a bit, and he tilts his head up and breathes out, long and slow in relief. Private client; request for information about rates and procedure. It came from a nondescript email, so there's no hint of what kind of person it is, but he doesn't get very many people who come right to him like that. Usually they see where he's working — a careful bit of information he leaves available — and then come down and pull him in the backseat of a car, or down into an alley. The ones that are willing to have some thread of actual connection between them and him — real, _actual_ evidence — are the ones that usually would be hurt more by being spotted in lower Gotham than the possibility of an email being linked back to them.

He spares a second to send out a mental thanks to whichever escort pointed them towards him. He knows most of the women who work this job by reputation, if not personally, and most of them know him too. He's one of the few males even in the job, and almost all of the rest are high-price, 'take me to an expensive hotel,' specialized ones. The kind that can hang off someone's arm at some rich fundraiser without anyone asking questions.

His experience is that most of the men who look for people like him don't want that. They want something dirtier, something more forbidden. Sometimes they ask the escorts who they should go to, so every once in awhile he gets a client that's some rich, semi-famous man who wants to get out of society's view and do something a little illicit. Sometimes they're rough, most times they're at least a little ashamed, but they're always good money.

Quickly, he sends his reply; makes a mention that he has time open as soon as the next couple days and crossing his fingers that he's taken up on it. If he can get this guy to make an appointment with him in the next couple days, and collect a fee, maybe he can make rent. Maybe he won't have to resort to selling himself to his bastard of a landlord.

That's a nice thought.

He shoves his phone back away, makes sure his money is slipped carefully out of sight and out of the reach of any would-be pickpockets — learned that lesson fast — and heads out. He gets another email before he's even all the way to the store, and another sharp surge of relief goes through him when he reads it. Tonight. The man wants tonight. He's even answered the couple of security questions he asks, not that he would have denied the guy if they weren't. It's an extra caution, but his job isn't safe to begin with, so he has to resort to trusting in his own ability to put up enough of a fight to discourage potential murderers, instead of relying on anybody else stepping in to help him. It's never failed him before.

He smiles as he walks into the store, and lets some of the tension ease out of him as he types a response up, agreeing to the meet and asking for some details. Where to meet up is the main one that he needs to know; the rest is optional but nice to know. Like how to recognize the guy, and what he's interested in. Always nice to be forewarned if a guy is going to be rough; he'll work himself open beforehand regardless, but it's nice to know if he's going to end up with bruises or not. Or if the guy has any weird kinks he's going to need to cater to.

He's up for most things, but there have been some requests that he's just…

With any luck, this guy is just one of those vanilla sex ones, whose 'forbidden' desire only goes as far as wanting to sleep with another man. Those are the easy ones.

* * *

Night comes, and he finds himself waiting at the appointed street corner. He's lined his eyes enough to make them stand out against his skin, made sure he's clean and 'prepared' for even the most useless of prep, just in case. But contrary to what he normally does, he's kept himself looking casual. One of the newest looking white t-shirts he owns, and the one pair of black jeans he owns that actually fit him 'right', instead of being a size too small like usual. He still looks good, but he doesn't look as obviously drenched in _sex_ as he usually tries for.

He's expecting a car when eleven rolls around, but instead it's a motorcycle that pulls onto the side street, turning the corner a little fast but quickly slowing to a stop in front of him. The man on it is in blue jeans, a black leather jacket hanging open over a shirt pretty similar to his, and black boots that he's immediately jealous of. Steel-toed combat boots with a tiny bit of heel and they've got that oiled, _deep_ black of well cared for leather. His own suddenly feel significantly dingier in comparison, even though he does his best to keep them in good condition.

The man kicks the stand of the motorcycle down, then reaches up and pulls the black helmet off, shaking his head like he's some kind of damn model and sending black curls of hair falling down around his face. He watches, and the man swings off the motorcycle and turns to him, expression a little uncertain but still smiling. It's a fucking _gorgeous_ smile, honestly. The guy's… a whole lot better looking than most of his clients, to put it mildly.

"Jason?" the man asks, voice just as slightly-uncertain as his expression.

"I was kind of expecting a car," he decides to answer, walking closer to the man. "But this isn't bad." He takes a closer look at the motorcycle, appreciating the sleek lines of the black and blue bike almost as much as the guy's smile. "Nice machine you've got there."

The uncertainty fades a bit, and the man gives a brighter smile. "Thanks. Here, I've uh—" A moment where the man turns, pushes open the back end of the motorcycle and pulls out a second helmet. "I've got that one for you…" He's handed the helmet, and then the man pulls something folded and black out of that compartment too. "And this too. Figured I'd bring it in case you needed it."

It's a jacket. A _leather_ jacket.

He really tries to not show how fucking amazing it feels between his fingers — butter-soft and _gorgeous_ — as he takes it, and then pulls it on one arm at a time. "Sure know how to treat a guy," he comments, with a practiced, small but _wicked_ smirk, and a little flicker of his eyes to the ground as if he's obedient. Not that he isn't, in a way.

His client blushes, stammers a little, unintelligibly, and then manages, "No problem. I um…" A hand is abruptly shoved at him. "I'm Dick; it's nice to meet you."

He's a little bemused, but he takes the hand, shakes it firmly. "Nice to meet you," he echoes, letting his smirk fade to a smile.

Dick — he's just going to avoid all the jokes about that, at least for now — lets go of his hand, then says, "You're… You don't look like I thought you were going to."

"Well, usually when people set up appointments with me, they don't want me to actually look like what I am." His mouth curves back into a smirk, as he tilts his head a bit to one side. "Not until we're alone at least." He raises the helmet a little. "I assume we're going somewhere?"

Somehow, Dick manages to shake off the returned blush, and nod. "Yeah. I've got a room booked at a hotel; it's not that far away." Dick gets back on the bike, a leg swinging over, one hand rising towards him as if to help him on. "Here, just go ahead and—"

He takes the offer before the words can finish, taking Dick's hand only so he can slide his fingers up the leather covering that arm, clasping his shoulder to steady himself as he straddles the bike behind his client. It's easy to slide his hand around Dick's waist, letting his fingertips catch in the white shirt and drag it a bit as he presses close to Dick's back and hooks that arm all the way around his chest, till his palm is pressed flat to a stomach that's honestly a lot firmer than he expected it to be. He can feel Dick's breath catch, feel the stomach contract beneath his fingers, and lets out a soft breath against the back of his neck that gets him a full on shiver.

"Not my first time having something powerful between my legs," he whispers, letting his fingers curl against Dick's stomach. "Go on; take me for a ride."

"Helmet," Dick almost rasps out.

The way he drags his fingers slowly back around Dick's side before he leans a little back is entirely purposeful, and he raises the helmet in his other hand and tugs it on partially to cover his smirk. This is a responsive one, and he's pretty damn good looking; he might actually be relatively fun. Some clients are more enjoyable than others, and he really does try to enjoy his job when he can. He's pretty much stuck in it, so if he couldn't enjoy it life would be one hell of a lot worse than it is. He takes the good times when he can get them.

Dick is pulling on his own helmet, and he grins — safe in the knowledge that Dick can't see it behind the helmet — and makes sure to 'accidentally' drag the white t-shirt high enough as he slides both hands back around that he can _just_ skim one finger over bare skin. An accident, of course, and he doesn't say anything about it, just presses back up against the heat of the body in front of him. His arms are wrapped securely around Dick's chest, and he wonders a bit about the muscle he can feel under the shirt. What's that going to look like when the shirt comes off? And what does the guy do that he's got a build like this?

The motorcycle starts, and he draws his legs up and sets himself up to watch where they're going over Dick's shoulder. It's the quick route out of lower Gotham, along backstreets that frankly the guy probably shouldn't know and into that spot where things jump from lower to 'tourist' pretty quickly. Then, just a couple blocks more in a _precisely_ crooked way, and it transfers all the way up to 'upper class.' He used to come up here as a kid; place had the easiest marks to make a decent chunk of money in a short period. More determined cops too, but he learned to deal with them. Only got booked once, and they got as far as getting him to the car before he slipped away again and ran for it.

The hotel they come up to is tall, _soaring_ into the sky, and he slides his hands a little bit back so he's not quite so obviously feeling Dick up as they approach. Dick doesn't go to the front door though, but drives down into an underground garage instead. It isn't until they've gone through a slightly winding cement entrance/exit, and a small curve, that it opens up into a much bigger space, and there's a guard post along with one of those lifting security beams blocking off the rest of the garage.

Dick pulls to a stop in front of it — the guard is shifting, coming out of the post — and he startles just a little bit when the motorcycle actually shuts all the way off. "Come on," Dick says quietly, shoulders rolling back in a silent prompt for him to let go, as both hands rise to unlatch his helmet.

He does, getting his own helmet off and then following Dick off the bike, as the guard approaches. Not a guard though; similarly uniformed but clearly some type of valet or… something. Dick takes the helmet for him, stowing it away and then leaving the second on the seat, before he turns to the valet and hands the man the key.

"Welcome back, sir," the man says, with a too-bright smile. "I'll take good care of her; she'll be ready whenever you are."

"Thanks, Francis," Dick says, almost as cheerfully.

Not entirely sure how to handle the situation — money and service and forced cheer are not his forte, irony be damned — he stays quiet, flashing a smile that's probably too sexual not to show exactly what he is when the valet glances at him. Before he can be sure, before he can read whatever reaction the man has, Dick pats his shoulder and guides him away. Since he doesn't really want to know if the valet knows exactly what his visit is about, he lets Dick steer him out of the garage, across the cement until it becomes a marbled floor, and then to a row of built-in elevators against the wall. It's only once they're inside that he considers speaking again, headed up to a floor too high for there to be any doubt that this client is at least a dozen steps above the one he thought he was getting.

"Been here before?" Dick asks, before he can say anything.

He almost startles again, but manages to turn it into a little sway of his hips and a twist, to look just slightly down at the other man. "It's a little rich for my blood," he answers, truthfully enough. Then, because apparently his brain has decided to shut down all filter for a minute, he adds, "Most people don't want to spend more on the bed than the entertainment." He regrets it the second he's said it, but he can't exactly show that without making it worse so he just gives a practiced smirk instead, like he's teasing.

He's not totally sure that Dick believes it, because there's a fraction of a second where Dick has a weird expression before it slides away underneath a smile that's maybe a little too small to actually be amused. Still, there's no disgust or pity, so he hasn't totally ruined the night yet; he'll just have to be a little more careful about what he says from now on. Or in general, really. He's never been the best at holding his tongue; it's a problem.

"It's a little rich for me too," Dick says, after a couple seconds. "I didn't grow up with any of this so it still feels kind of weird for me." He pauses, unsure how to answer that, and Dick gives a small shrug, gaze sliding away from his. "I don't tell many people that; kind of defeats the purpose of looking like a rich boy if you don't actually look comfortable with it."

"Then why the big hotel?" he asks. "I mean, I am the _last_ person that's in a position to judge you. I wouldn't have cared where we went. If we even did."

Dick gives a sheepish sounding laugh, and a look he can only describe as rueful. "Well, I figure at least one staff member will leak a story to the press. I fell out of the media spotlight a while ago; now I'm back in Gotham it'd be good to refresh that interest."

He can only stare for a couple of seconds. "What kind of life do you have where you _want_ to get caught with a prostitute? I've met a lot of people with bizarre desires but that's definitely a first."

"I'm a bizarre kind of person," is his answer, along with another smile that's charming and somehow strangely sincere.

He slips into trying to think about what could be _worse_ for the media to pick up on than sleeping with same-sex prostitute? Really, the only thing he can think of is pretty illegal, violent things, but that doesn't mesh with the guy in front of him. He's not getting _any_ feelings of danger off Dick, and he is pretty finely fucking tuned to danger, even for a Gothamite. He's almost positive that Dick is harmless.

His mind flicks back to the muscle hidden beneath that shirt, and he amends his thoughts. Not harmless, but not _dangerous_ either; more like 'capable,' if he had to guess. There are a lot of people in Gotham that know how to fight surprisingly well; it comes along with the whole 'most dangerous city in the States' thing they've got going on. Most people that live in Gotham know exactly how to do two things: get the hell out of the way, and continue on with life no matter what kind of shit is going down. A couple extra skills definitely don't hurt your survival chances.

Belatedly, he manages to smirk again and finally answer, "Well, it's a bizarre city."

That gets him a laugh, and Dick shifts a little closer to him, shoulder brushing against his. "I'm in good company then."

His smirk slips into a grin, almost against his will. "I'm pretty bizarre too, yeah. Good call there." It feels weirdly comfortable, in a way that most interactions with his clients definitely aren't. He's _not_ faking, and how strange is that? He fakes enjoying conversations like these all the time, but he's _not_.

Dick rolls his eyes, nudges his shoulder a little harder than he expects so he rocks a bit to the side before he can steady himself. "Trust me, I have met _way_ weirder people than you, Jason. It's kind of my lifestyle choice."

"Being among the rich and famous? Oh yeah, whole lot of weird people there."

"Like you wouldn't _believe_ ," Dick says, with another laugh. Quieter this time, but more than enough to make him grin again.

"I'd believe it," he says, softer. "So are you one of them?"

The elevator slows, and Dick looks up at him as the doors open, _smiles_. "Come find out."


End file.
